


A Matter of Trust

by Lila82



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-20 13:53:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8251471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lila82/pseuds/Lila82
Summary: Ginny might only have a high school education, but her vocabulary isn’t small.  Inevitable – she knows what it means.  Mike does too.  And they both know it’s only a matter of time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yadda, yadda, yadda, it’s been three episodes and I couldn’t resist writing a new fic. Title and quotes courtesy of Billy Joel. Enjoy.

 

* * *

 

 _I’ve lived long enough to have learned_  
_The closer to the fire the more you get burned_  
_But that won’t happen to us_  
_‘Cause it’s always been a matter of trust_  
  
  
“Lawson, I have a problem.” 

It’s the day after the Arizona game and while Mike claimed that he was packing it in early, it wasn’t until the wee hours of the morning, skin sticky with sweat and knees aching, that he actually fell into something resembling sleep. 

But Baker doesn’t have to know that he spent the better part of the night rolling around naked with her agent. She doesn’t have to know anything about his personal life. She’s his ace pitcher and he's her catcher, and her life has been absolute shit lately, so he pushes his sunglasses up his nose and turns his attention to her.

They’re still sitting together. Despite whatever progress she’s making with the team, he staked his territory before the Dodgers game. The first time had been him being nice, but now it’s something of habit. Baker, Lawson - they always seem to find each other. 

“Hit me.” The beanball earned her major points with Tommy, but it seems the joke’s worn off. Her expression is gravely serious, her eyes red-rimmed. Her mouth trembles like she’s trying to fight back tears. She looks away when she shoves her phone in his direction.

In the days after, he kind of hates her for it. 

He gets a quick glimpse of smooth skin and lean muscle before he jerks his gaze away. “Jesus, Baker. You could have given me a little warning.”

She scoffs. “Cool your jets, Lawson. That’s the PG version.”

“How?” he says, surprised by the hard edge to his voice. She flinches, but he doesn’t feel bad. It’s only been three weeks but he _knows_ she knows that he isn’t angry with her.

“Davis,” she says flatly. “You were right – it was more than a casual conversation. We had a thing back in Texas…” her voice trails off. She turns to face him and she’s never looked so young, not even in the collegiate game footage he watched when Al told him she was being called up. He thinks about the images he just saw and it makes him feel gross, that she’s hurting and he’s bummed that he didn’t see the R-rated stuff. He tells himself to get his mind out of the gutter. She’s his pitcher and he’s her catcher and he’ll walk with her through this like it’s any other day.

“You know how lonely it gets on the road,” she continues. “I was young and I was dumb and Trevor’s cloud got hacked.”

“Fuuuuuck.”

She laughs without humor. “It never even got to that point.” Her jaw locks, mouth losing any hint of a tremor, and her gaze takes on the sharp focus he sees staring back at him from sixty feet. She might have a plan, but she also needs his help.

“I can handle the media fallout. Amelia already has a strategy, but I need your help with the team.” She pauses, like she’s gathering strength, and he hates to see her like this, shouldering yet another burden. Like having nude pictures splashed across the Internet isn’t bad enough. Her hand brushes over his, hard, calloused fingers that aren’t so different from his own. She’s not so different from him in general. He was twenty when he joined the Padres. If smartphones had existed back then, there’s a good chance his junk would be living on the web for posterity. “I…I can’t let them see me like this. Can you do that?” 

He takes her hand and squeezes once, just a quick show of solidarity, but he isn’t prepared for how small her fingers feel or how soft the backs of her knuckles are. Suddenly, his chest feels tight, like he wants to slay dragons for her. But he can’t, because she doesn’t want that, she wants this one thing and who’s he to turn her down?

“Yeah, I can do that.”

She smiles, only a slight curve of her mouth because today she doesn’t have much to smile about, but it’s enough to make him feel like there’s something tightening around his lungs. 

He closes his eyes but that smile stays in the forefront of his mind.

For her, it seems he’ll do anything she asks.

 

* * *

 

Amelia doesn’t yell. 

“This is why you have me,” she says. “So I can fix the mistakes you didn’t know you were going to make."

She doesn’t throw anything or belittle Eliot either, but her face closes up, all high cheekbones and porcelain perfection, and Ginny sees the flare of her eyes and the thin set of her mouth. 

Amelia Slater is a woman that moves in the world of men but bristles at being controlled by them. 

Ginny doesn’t know what it is exactly, but she knows there’s more to Amelia’s reasons for becoming her agent than she’s letting on. But Ginny doesn’t push, because it’s not her business, although she always watches her agent with both eyes open. It’s the only way she thinks she can survive the clusterfuck her life has become.

“We fight shame with shame,” Amelia explains, her heels grinding into the wooden floor as she paces. “We’ll point out that none of Trevor Davis’ photos were released, what it says about our society and how we treat women. We’ll ask how those photos have anything to do with your ERA.” 

Eliot cheers, pleased that his terminology lessons are paying off, but one icy glare from Amelia has him finding his tablet suddenly fascinating.

“Do you think it will work?”

Amelia shrugs. “We have Rachel Patrick and Katie Nolan on our side. Slut shaming a woman will do more damage to a male commentator’s career than Joe Buck’s hair plugs.” Her eyes brighten, her gaze almost predatory, and Ginny knows she made the right choice letting this woman fight her battles. “Yeah, it’s going to work.”

 

* * *

 

The speech goes something like this.

“You will not look at those photos. You will not talk about those photos. You will not even think about those photos. You give Baker one weird look and photos of Al’s mother-in-law will be plastered on every locker come morning. Do you understand me?”

It’s not one of his better speeches, but there’s something to be said about brevity. The team must hear something in his voice, or see something in his face, because no one questions him or tries to push back. 

“Davis is a dick,” Tommy says and then Voorhies is backing him up and then the entire locker room is little more than loud men standing up for Baker.

Blip nudges him, arms crossed over his chest as he surveys the scene. “Legacy stuff, man.”

Mike doesn’t disagree, even though Blip isn’t entirely right. He did it because Ginny is his pitcher and he’s her catcher, and because he genuinely likes her, and because he’s trying to be the man he never was for Rachel, but he knows, deep in that part of his chest that still aches, what he saw on that phone – it’s something he doesn’t want to share with anyone else.

 

* * *

 

Amelia’s strategy works, minus the usual suspects, and there’s a few sterile apologies and one announcer gets suspended, but the scandal blows over. Ginny gets a lot of praise for throwing a six inning no-no two days after the hacker goes public.

She’d have gone longer, tried for a true no-hitter, but her shoulder started aching and her fastball was clocking in at the low eighties and she didn’t protest when Al pulled her. 

She spends the rest of the game in the rehab room wearing a sports bra and holding an icepack to her shoulder.

Lawson comes in looking for his trainer and for a moment, her breath catches in her chest. He's wearing just a pair of black boxer-briefs and it’s nothing she hasn’t seen before, but he’s only seen her in layer upon layer of clothing. She waits for him to notice how naked she is, but his eyes stay firmly on her face when he asks if she’s seen Rob. 

“Not recently,” she says, proud of how even her voice sounds.

He nods and ducks out of the room and she lets out the mouthful of air that seems permanently lodged in her lungs. She’s disappointed and doesn’t know why.

 

* * *

 

It’s another five minutes before Mike tracks down Rob. 

He rests his forehead against the wall outside the training room and tries to calm his racing heart. 

All that bare skin, all that wild hair. Slamming his fist into the wall would serve as a distraction, but he needs it in the morning. 

Instead, he lets Rob hammer the hell out of his back and texts Amelia on his way out of the clubhouse.

It’s good, but not good enough.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks post-nakedgate and they’re back in the weight room together.

Mike was relieved when he found Baker the morning after her confession, winding her hair into a ponytail and stretching her quads. She’d shared something monumental with him but he hadn’t wanted it to change things. She pushed him harder than any other teammate, and she made him want to play better. He'd known he was in the twilight of his career and that he wanted to go out on a high note. 

He’d brought in a heavy bag that morning and let her punch the hell out of it and now it’s become a regular part of their routine. Davis, Colin Cowherd – there’s always someone’s face to picture on that bag.

Baker’s taking particular offense to something this Wednesday morning, and Mike would probably find it cute if it didn’t make him worry about her headspace when she’s starting the next night. 

“Take five.” She ignores him, the way he’d hoped she wouldn’t, and they’re not on the field, but she’s still his pitcher and she needs to learn to follow his calls. “Take five, _Rookie_.” 

She glares at him, but lowers her fists, breathing heavily under her thin t-shirt. Mike focuses on steadying the bag to keep from staring at her heaving chest.

“Fucking Amelia,” she mumbles under her breath.

“‘Scuse me?” A flush creeps up his neck like it always does when he feels like he’s been caught.

Baker angrily tugs the cap off her water bottle. “So I came in late last night. Big deal. I’m not pitching today and I’m twenty-three years old. I know how to manage my own fitness.” 

Mike zones out while she continues her rant, works to get his color back to normal. He doesn’t know why thinking Baker finding out about him and Amelia has him feeling guilty.

“I already have one mom, you know?”

“What?” Mike blinks down at her, feeling like a total moron. Did she just say her mom is a lesbian?

Baker shakes her head and looks at him the way she always does, like he might be the old pro but it doesn’t mean he knows anything. “I get that she cares, but she needs to stop acting like my parent when she’s my agent.” She puts down her water bottle, rant effectively over. She’s cleared whatever was on her chest but Mike feels a little dazed as he takes his place on the other side of the bag. He’s thirteen years older than her and she talks about his rookie card like it's her most valuable possession. Baker trusts Amelia, lets her in, and she does the same for him. Does she think of him like her dad?

“So what does that make me?” 

Baker raises her eyebrows at him. “What do you mean?”

“If Amelia’s like your mom, what does that make me?” He hopes his voice doesn’t sound as awkward to her as it does to him.

She pauses for the longest minute of his life, head cocked jauntily while she contemplates her answer. When she finally speaks, it feels like he can’t breathe. “You’re my friend,” she says slowly. “You’re my catcher and my teammate but mostly my friend. Right?”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Right.”

It’s not what he wanted, but he can live with catcher and teammate and especially friend. Friends can always turn into something more.

 

* * *

 

It repeats like a refrain in his head: rookie, thirteen, _twenty-three_. 

He hears it when he finally sees that clip of Kimmel and she’s staring at him through his iPad screen in a tight pink dress. 

He hears it when they're out with the team and the bar plays a song that she likes and she’s on the dance floor twenty feet away, body moving with the same sinuous grace she demonstrates on the mound.

He hears it when she’s playing Uno with Tommy before a game and she’s pulling her hair back from her face, long, lean muscles flexing and rippling under smooth brown skin. 

He hears it when he remembers an article he read in _Maxim_ or _Men’s Health_ or something similarly dumb, about the twenty-three things every man should be able to do with his tongue.

He watches her on the table with Rob while he works out a particularly tight knot in her shoulders, and she purrs, actually purrs, and Mike realizes that it doesn’t matter how many times he replays that tired refrain, his skin still feels hot and there’s a tight feeling low in his belly that just won’t go away. 

He’s attracted to his pitcher and there’s no getting around it.

 

* * *

 

Ginny has Mike Lawson’s rookie card and slept with his poster over her bed, but it’s still easy to forget he’s more than her teammate.

They slide into an easy partnership and an easier camaraderie, and there are moments when she remembers their age difference – when he struggles to his feet after a long inning, or he’s wincing in the cold therapy bath while the ice does its work – but those moments are few and far between and she doesn’t think much of them. So what that he’s older than her – it only means there’s so much more she can learn from him.

Then, one day in the weight room, he drops his brace. 

It’s not the first time. Bare hands get sweaty and things fall. But today, Lawson’s back locks and a frustrated grimace settles on his face. It’s hard to see under the beard, but Ginny recognizes the determination in his eyes. Every day for eighteen years, she’s seen the same look staring back at her in the mirror.

“I got this, rookie,” he says, that grimace widening as he bends over.

She’s faster than him, or maybe she’s getting better at reading him, but she crouches to retrieve the brace at the same time he reaches down.

She has one hand on the brace, but might as well be on Mars. His mouth is inches from hers and even the bristle of beard can’t hide his full lower lip. She stares at it for a good thirty seconds before she realizes what she’s doing.

Lawson must realize it too because he takes a step back, but they’re getting good at this game, reading signals before they’re sent, and she pushes to her knees as he manages to fully straighten.

It’s worse than before. Her mouth isn’t level with his, but rather his crotch. Her _mouth_ , a scant inch from whatever he’s packing behind black mesh shorts. She remembers laughing about it with Evelyn, giggling over Blood Marys while discussing Mike Lawson’s theoretical junk. Two months ago, it was a silly crush, but there’s nothing to joke about today.

She can see it in his eyes as he stares down at her, the same heat washing over her entire body. She’s always known Lawson as a legend, a hero in cleats, but she’s not sure she’s been aware of him as a man. He’s agile and fit, but here, like this, chest heaving as watches her with that burning gaze, she can’t focus on anything else. 

He moves first, grabbing the brace, and she fumbles for her water bottle so she has something to do with her hands.

“Thanks,” he says roughly, his voice an octave or two lower than usual. It makes her feel a little better, knowing whatever happened wasn’t a one-sided thing.

Silence fills the room while he puts on the brace, louder even than her rapidly beating heart.

“We doing this?” It’s weights this morning and he’ll need her to serve as his spotter.

Ginny startles a little but manages a curt nod. “Loser buys breakfast.” Her voice is only a little breathy and she’s pretty proud of herself. 

Lawson nods in return and stretches out on the bench and she works very hard to keep her eyes focused on the barbell and not the sliver of skin that appears at his waistline when he raises his arms. He barks orders and she follows blindly. He’s her catcher – her _leader_ – and it’s his job to fix this mess. 

He does, mostly. They make it through their workout, but she does one more set of burpees and he owes her a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. He even jokes about how her appetite is burning a hole through his wallet. It’s almost normal.

Almost.

Because someone leaves a towel on the weight bench and they reach for it at the same time and their fingers brush against each other. It shouldn’t be different than any other day. He handed the ball to her just the previous night at the bottom of the sixth. But he was wearing his glove then and today it’s bare skin, rough, calloused skin brushing over hers. 

He makes no mention of it, but keeps his eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder as he tells her to meet him in the lobby in ten. They’re in New York to play the Mets and she’s been looking forward to an authentic diner breakfast, or really anything but hotel food. 

It’s everything she was hoping for, especially the greasy bacon, and Lawson makes good points about Syndergaard’s fastball, but her concentration is shot.

Lawson waves his fork to prove a point, and all she can think about is how good those hands felt against her own.

 

* * *

 

Mike texts Amelia after the first game in New York. It’s been a while since he’s slept with her, but he doesn’t think she’ll turn him down.

He likes Amelia. 

She’s smart and she’s beautiful and to his surprise, a good listener. She’s also had a failed marriage and it’s nice having someone to talk to about Rachel. It’s nice having someone that understands.

But he doesn’t _like_ her. If he never saw her again, he’d be sad to lose a sympathetic ear, but he wouldn’t miss her. 

His only friends in New York were Rachel’s friends too, and he doesn’t want to deal with that tonight. She’s getting married in December and he’s in no mood for the pitying looks and sympathetic comments.

So he texts Amelia. She’s at his hotel room within an hour, already unbuttoning her blouse when he opens the door.

He knows he should feel guilty. He closes his eyes when he kisses her and a different face flashes through his mind, Baker's mouth open and wide and a hairsbreadth from his cock. He can’t stop thinking about it. 

He knows he _should_ feel guilty but he just doesn’t. He has a crush on his rookie and he doesn’t know what else to do.

 

* * *

 

 _LawsonandAmelia, AmeliaandLawson_. It repeats through her head like a sad refrain. 

She doesn’t know why she’s upset. He’s single. Amelia’s single. They’re both consenting adults and he’s her catcher. Not everyone can burn off steam by running a few extra laps around he outfield. She shouldn’t judge how he spends his down time.

But it still hurts when she sees the text. He’s talking to Al and she’s waiting for him so they can review game footage, and his phone buzzes. He’d left it on the couch arm and Ginny knows she shouldn’t look, but she can’t help it. It’s there and she’s curious. He seems to know everything about her but there’s so much of him that’s still a mystery.

_Room 809. 9:00. Don’t be late._

Ginny knows his reputation. She was there for the “uber” drop-off before the Dodgers series and has heard about his exploits with groupies, but always in some vague universe where she didn’t know the exact details.

She knows Amelia and Amelia knows her. She wasn’t kidding when she compared Amelia to her mom– there’s very little about her life that Amelia doesn’t control.

But Lawson knows her too and the thought of them comparing notes, swapping her secrets while they’re naked and sweaty…it makes her want to throw up. Is there nothing left in her life that’s sacred?

She wants Mike to be happy, she truly does. Whatever is simmering between them, there’s no need for it to boil over. She can live with what they have, and even if he wants to have something with someone who’s not her. 

Except he does have someone and she wishes he’d chosen anyone else.

 

* * *

 

Baker glares at him when he joins her for breakfast. They don’t eat together every morning, but he makes a point of reviewing stats with her on days when she’s pitching. 

They have their opener against the Braves later that night and he wants to discuss how close Freeman is to the Hank Aaron Award. Mike’s hoping her screwball will lower his chances.

She can be moody in the morning, especially when they lost the night before or there’s a big game coming up, but he’s never seen her expression quite so stormy. Not even when he slapped her ass that day on the diamond. It’s a good distraction though, to keep from thinking about that perfect pear-shaped ass. Seems seeing Amelia didn’t quite do the trick.

“Someone piss in your Cornflakes?” He kicks out the chair opposite hers and takes a seat.

She keeps glowering and her forehead knots, like she’s thinking hard about something, and he realizes it’s probably the reference. He feels old and gross and stirs protein powder into his juice with more vigor than necessary. When did he turn into such a creep?

“So you and Amelia.” Baker finally speaks, her voice calm and collected, like she’s been practicing all morning.

He stops stirring his juice. Baker watches him coolly – expectantly – and waits for his reaction. 

The unease fades and guilt takes its place, although Mike’s not quite sure who it’s directed at: Amelia, for coming in second place, or Baker, for inspiring things in him that he shouldn't feel for a teammate.

It makes him defensive, feeling like he’s done something wrong, and he leans back in his chair to confront her.

“We both single and consenting adults,” he says, parroting Amelia’s words the first morning after. “You know how hard it is finding someone discreet when you’re on the road.” He realizes how it sounds, but only after he’s said it. “That’s not what I meant – ” 

Her expression softens. “That’s not what I meant either.” She pauses and he leans in to hear her better, so close he can smell her shampoo over her omelet and chicken sausage. “Amelia’s more than my agent. You know that.” He does know, so he says nothing. “But you’re more than my friend and what happens between us – I need it to stay between us.” 

He knows she’s referring to the bond that’s developed between pitcher and catcher, doesn’t let himself think it’s more even though he knows it is. He’s hyper aware of her, can sense her even when she does nothing more than enter a room. His skin feels tight and something hot and visceral knots in his belly and he thinks it might kill him, this new normal he feels when she’s around. 

But she’s his pitcher and he’s her catcher and he can’t let it be more. He stops thinking about what she does to him and focuses on what he’s doing to her, starting with the twin spots of color burning in her cheeks. She’s aware of it but doesn’t look away; she isn’t ashamed of the confession she made, even if she’s not sure how he’ll respond. 

“What happens between Lawson and Baker, stays between Lawson and Baker.” She still looks doubtful. “I’m serious,” he says. “My personal life stays out of the clubhouse.” He makes a motion like he’s zipping his mouth closed. “Steel trap.”

For a moment, just a moment, something like disappointment flits over her face before she breaks into a wide grin. She sticks her hand out to shake and he takes it without hesitation, proud of how little time he spends thinking about how soft her palm is. 

She turns back to her breakfast and he forces down his juice. It tastes like ash and he knows it has nothing to do with the protein powder he added on a whim. 

He did everything right and he still feels like he lost.

 

* * *

 

They manage to clinch a Wild Card spot and no one is more thrilled about it than Baker. Her excited shouts echo down the tunnel as the team heads into the clubhouse.

Mike’s mobbed by press so he’s the last one to the locker room. He pastes on a smile for as long as his knees hold up, then packs it in for a long soak in the ice bath. He can hear the champagne celebration going on in the next room and he smiles through the pain, ice and muscle ache alike. He should probably go join them. He’s thirty-six years old and it might be his last chance at a playoffs run.

But he doesn’t feel ready yet. As far as Baker’s come, there’s more to do, and he’ll need his knees to get through it. He grimaces as Rob pours more ice into the bath. Suffering for his craft, he’s getting good at it.

The clubhouse is empty when he’s finally showered and dressed, and he’s due at the afterparty, but he doesn’t want to leave quite yet. He wants one more peek at the field, four bases and a mound that have defined his life for the last sixteen years. He’s got another year or two in him, but nights like these – he wants to remember them forever.

He probably shouldn't be surprised to to find Baker on the diamond, but he figured she'd be out celebrating with the boys. She fought hard to earn their respect and there's no better way to prove it than partying it up after a big win. But Baker's different, and not just because she's a girl. Of course she'd want a moment of peace to soak in all she's achieved this year. She’s got a bottle of André in one hand she breaks into the brightest of smiles when she sees him. “We’re in the playoffs, Lawson!”

Her smile is infectious and Mike finds himself grinning back like an idiot. She seems to have that effect on him, making him do things he normally never would. He meets her at the mound, expecting to soak in this moment with her, maybe drink some bad champagne, but Baker has other plans.

She throws her arms around him, champagne bottle smacking painfully into his shoulder blade, her eyes shining brighter than any star in the sky. She looks young and beautiful and he wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss her most days – when she throws a screwball so perfect he might cry, or she’s particularly clever in telling Tommy to fuck off – but he especially wants to kiss her tonight.

She’s come a long way from the robot in cleats she used to call herself. She’s strong and confident and he likes to think he had a part in it. Not too much credit, but some. He knows she’s left her mark on him.

Mike doesn’t know which of them moves first. Maybe it’s him, maybe it’s her. Maybe it’s the champagne or the high of the win. Maybe it doesn’t matter, because when her mouth crashes into his, everything else slips away. 

Her lips slide under his and she opens her mouth, tongue moving in an exploratory dance. She tastes like cheap champagne and victory and the kiss only lasts a minute, but he wants it to last forever. 

She’s still holding the champagne bottle and it slides from her hands when she winds her fingers through his hair and it’s the literal cold shower he needs to wake the hell up. 

He’s the experienced one here, been playing this game for over half his life. He knows better than to make such a rookie mistake. He rests his hands on her shoulders to put some distance between them, tries to think of a witty comeback to diffuse the situation. 

Whatever he was going to say dies on his tongue. She’s looking at him with those stars in her eyes, big and wide and so full of trust. 

"Mike,” she whispers and it’s the best thing he’s ever heard. He’s known her nearly half a year but this might be the first time she’s said his actual name.

He could kiss her again. He _wants_ to kiss her again. He knows he can’t kiss her again. She’s a rookie – his rookie – and she deserves better. His career is ending but hers is just beginning and one of them needs to be thinking clearly.

He shrugs like it’s no big thing, because it has to be if they want to make this work. There are too may people counting on them to let one kiss bring down the rest of the season. 

“That was fun, huh?” She stares at him as he fights through the strain on his back and knees to pick up the empty bottle. “Killer on the grounds. Don’t let Mick know you dumped five dollar champagne on his green.”

It takes another thirty seconds before she starts playing along. ““Just a little post-game excitement.” 

“Yeah, something like that.” He gestures to his face. “Plus, you know I’m irresistible.”

She laughs, that big, bubbly laugh that lights up her whole face, and soon he’s laughing with her. “Guess we should get to that party.” She nudges him with her shoulder, and he decides maybe it’s time to follow her lead.

“You did good tonight, Ginny,” he says, trying her name on for size. It sounds good – right – coming out of his mouth, and he wants to keep saying it again. 

Maybe he will. It’s the one change he thinks they can live with.


	2. Chapter 2

 

* * *

 

 _I know you're an emotional girl_  
_It took a lot for you to not lose your faith in this world_  
_I can't offer you proof_  
_But you're going to face a moment of truth_  
  
  
They don’t make the World Series and they don’t clinch the pennant either. They ground out in Game Five against the Nationals and just like that, the season’s over. It doesn’t feel like a failure. The team is solid and Al’s job is secure, and Mike’s knees have another year in them, maybe even two. There isn’t much else he could ask for. He can live without a ring if it means his career has a future. 

It helps that he likes the offseason. He gets to catch up on his tv and drink all the beer he wants and even read something that isn’t batting stats. Mostly though, he likes that no one wants anything from him. The press, sure, but the twenty-four men he calls teammates? They know not to bother him until January. Maybe that’s why this year is different, because there are _twenty-three_ men on his team and he doesn’t want to hear from any of them. 

It’s the lone woman that’s gotten under his skin.

She took her mom and brother to Europe as a peace offering after that disaster during the All-Star game, and she’s been radio silent since late October. He didn’t realize how much of his life she occupied until he has nothing but time. 

He hangs out some with Blip, the lone exception to his rule, and catches up with friends that exist outside baseball, but his house still feels too big and the days feel too long. He misses her and he hates it. He’s too old to reset. He wants her to slip out of his life as easily as she slid in.

Except he doesn’t, not really, because if he has to choose between missing her and losing her, he’d choose the former every time.

His phone buzzes and he looks up from a “Stranger Things” daze to check his texts. Ginny’s sent a picture, one of those cliché tourist shots of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. She’s holding out her hands like she’s pretending to prop up the building and smiling wildly for the camera, a familiar laughter glinting in her eyes that makes him smile in return. It’s a full minute before he realizes he’s by himself in his house with the same doofy grin on his face.

It’s another minute before he realizes that he just doesn’t care. Ginny’s six thousand miles away but he doesn’t feel so alone.

 

* * *

 

Ginny debates sending Mike the photo from Pisa.

The team filled her in on his post-season rules, Tommy recounting a particularly blistering lecture he received for texting their captain before the new year. So she knows she’s not supposed to contact him for another two months. Plus, she’ll see him at the holiday party in December. She can fill him in on her trip then.

Except she still finds herself with her phone in hand every night, excited to share stories about how she and Will couldn’t stop giggling over the Statue of David, or the magic she felt wandering back alleys through Venice. 

Mike is her captain and her catcher, but he’s also her friend. One kiss doesn’t change that. She talked to him almost every day during the regular seasons, especially when something significant happened. She’s never been to Europe before – every day feels important.

After a week, she makes a compromise. She’ll send him photos and quick texts, nothing that will take up too much of his time but enough to keep the connection alive. She sends the Pisa picture before she can second-guess herself.

A few hours later he responds with a shot of him on his couch, covered in beer cans. “Vacation, the ‘Murican way.” 

It makes her laugh and roll her eyes, but it also makes her feel like he’s here with her, experiencing all these new things at her side.

 

* * *

 

Mike heads to Iowa for Thanksgiving. He helps his mom cook and watches football with his dad and volunteers for the holiday auction at his nieces’ school.

It’s an annual tradition, offering up an afternoon of pizza and batting cages with Mike Lawson. His entry is always the biggest draw of the night, and it still is, but he’s used to eager little faces with big, starry eyes. He isn’t ready for the how the smiles dim when they realize he didn’t bring Ginny with him. Girls, boys, moms, dads – they’re all eager to meet his rookie. He’s no longer the main attraction, and yet…he finds he doesn’t mind. He’s proud of her, how far she’s come and how far her fame has spread. He likes that he was a part of it. 

The winner is a cocky boy whose parents have deep pockets. He takes the requisite selfie and tries to be excited for Aidan or Jayden or whatever the kid’s name is – the auction _is_ for charity – but he can’t help but wish a girl had won. It takes him aback, how quickly he’s changing. A year ago he wouldn’t have thought twice, but this year, he looks into a crowd of wannabe Ginny Bakers and knows it should have been one of them.

He can’t take back the prize, but he can do something more – something _better_ – and he gathers all the little girls together and asks his sister to take a video. His nieces crowd on either side of him and the whole group practices their lines a few times before Kim says, “Action!”

“Hello from Herbert Hoover Elementary, Ginny!” the high-pitched voices squeal in unison. “Congrats on your first season! We’re next!”

Mike gives each girl a high-five and assurances that he’ll tell Ginny all about them. His sister watches him carefully, an indecipherable look on her face.

“What?” he demands, hoping it’s dark enough to hide the flush creeping up his neck. 

“Check this out,” she says, gesturing for him to take out his phone so he can see the photo she just sent him. It’s him with the little girls, his smile so wide it almost splits his face. 

He shrugs. “So?" He did a nice thing for a bunch of kids. It’s no big deal, something he does often, but Kim is looking at him like she’s seeing him for the first time.

“Just saying, it’s a good look on you.”

Later that night, after tossing and turning in the childhood bed that’s been too small since he turned fifteen, he glances at the photo again. It _is_ a good look. He looks relaxed, younger even, the creases fanning from his eyes looking more like laugh lines than wrinkles. 

He tells himself it’s the offseason, vacation, Thanksgiving in his hometown with the people he loves. He knows it’s none of those things. It’s doing something good and sharing it with Ginny. It’s making her proud even when he has nothing to prove.

 

* * *

 

The team holiday party falls during the second week in December, held in a private room overlooking the water. It’s going to require enough energy making small talk with various members of the board and Mike doesn’t want to drag anyone else into it. He flies solo, even though his invite includes a plus one.

Amelia notices, sends a smirk his way that only means one thing: she’s planning on ending up in his bed at the end of he night. She’s attending as an honorary guest, all black lace and spiky heels, and Mike notices too because he isn’t blind, but it doesn’t do anything for him. Amelia is beautiful but he recognizes the brittle cut of her smile, the sharp edge in her gaze. He often sees the same look on his own face, especially after his divorce. The thing between them was a fun distraction when it started, but now it’s heavy and exhausting and he doesn’t want to feel that way anymore. 

Mostly, he wants to see Ginny. He has so much he wants to ask her – her thoughts on the US electing its first female president, whether or not Barb is truly dead – but his mind goes completely blank the moment he sees her in person. 

She’s wearing a red dress and smeared on lipstick in a similar shade, and the dress fits like a glove and makes her skin glow and he doesn’t miss how her gaze doesn’t stop roaming until it lands on him. He knows that doofy grin is back on his face but he’s not actually sure that he cares. It feels that good just to see her.

Tommy intercepts her before Mike can make his way over and he scowls into his drink, perfectly aware that Miller didn’t do anything wrong but feeling annoyed anyway. He’s waited over a month for this meeting. He knows he can wait longer, but he doesn’t want to. Amelia sidles up to him, an almost imperceptible frown between her eyes, and he scowls even harder because he knows he’s been caught.

“Now I know why you stopped calling.” Amelia’s tone is flat, but there’s an undercurrent of amusement. She doesn’t sound particularly surprised either.

Mike shrugs. “We never made any promises.”

Amelia rolls her eyes. “Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending that’s what this is about.” Her gaze shifts to the pitchers’ reunion. Stubbs has joined Miller and Mike kind of wants to smash both their faces in. Ginny…he just wants to get her alone. 

Something sharp grinds into his foot. One of Amelia’s spiked heels is planted squarely over his toes and her expression could cut glass. He swallows hard to keep from crying out. He doesn’t know which is scarier, Luarte gunning for his job or facing Amelia’s wrath.

“I’m going to say this once,” she says, effectively answering the question. “You hurt her, you hurt me.” Her heel digs in again to prove her point. He nods through the pain, exhaling a deep breath when she finally lets him up. “I’m glad we could reach an understanding.” She fluffs her hair and pastes on a neutral smile, calling out to Oscar about endorsement deals. She’s something, Amelia Slater, even if she's all wrong for him. 

Mike flexes his toes and watches her work the room. She’s scary, and his foot might never recover, but he’s glad Ginny has her on her side.

 

* * *

 

Ginny laughs at Tommy’s jokes and asks polite questions about the second Mrs. Stubbs, but she’s only half listening, unable to give her teammates her full attention because she feels Mike’s gaze on her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him talking to Amelia, pretends it doesn’t sting seeing them together. Mike doesn’t owe her anything. They kissed once and both knew it was a mistake, took a few days to recalibrate and then came together to win their first playoff game. There’s no reason he wouldn’t fall into familiar patterns while she was gone.

But then Amelia walks away and Mike’s eyes don’t linger on her retreating back. He studies his beer for a moment before swinging his gaze to land on Ginny. He looks like Mike always does, curious and happy to see her, and she doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, but she swears she sees something more. She shivers from the heat in his eyes.

The boys notice and Tommy offers her his jacket. She politely declines and holds up her empty glass. “Just need a refill.” 

Her skin feels tight and her hand is sweating despite the cool condensation clinging to her glass and she almost drops it when Mike strolls over.

He nods at her. “Rookie.” 

She stares at him, soaks up seeing him in the flesh. He looks good, especially with his broad shoulders straining the lines of his blazer. She wonders if his beard is as soft as she remembers. Then he smirks at her, like that first antagonistic day on the diamond, and any feelings of unease fade away. Mike is her _friend_. They can have a casual conversation without causing a scene.

She tips her glass. “Captain.”

He shakes his head and takes a step closer. “Not for another four months.” He takes another step closer, crowds into her space. “How was your trip?”

Her first thought is to remind him that he knows all about her trip. After the Pisa text, she sent him pictures or videos every day until she landed in San Diego, and he responded in kind. She still has the charity auction video saved on her camera roll. But he smiles at her, a quirk of his mouth that emphasizes his full lower lip, and all her instincts go out the window. 

“I missed you,” she says instead, eyes going wide when she realizes what she admitted. She forces her gaze to stay locked on Mike’s face when all she wants to do is crawl into a hole and die. They came to an agreement after the kiss and she just broke it with three simple words. 

For a moment Mike looks stunned, but his smile slowly widens, something sinful tugging at its corners. He takes yet another step towards her. “Oh yeah?”

Ginny shrugs, hoping she looks more casual than she feels. “We saw Di Caprio when we landed at De Gaulle. Who else was I going to tell?” Her words come out only a little strangled and she counts it as a win.

“How’d he look?”

“Beard, belly, pasty pale.” She looks pointedly from the beer in his hand to the non-existent bulge over his belt, sounding more like herself. “Kind of like you in the off season.”

He makes a motion like she’s shot him through the heart and the momentum of the action brings him another step closer. She can smell him, feel the heat coming off him too. It’s hard to remember what they were talking about when he’s standing so close. 

“This is what happens when I don’t have you racing me to the gym at the crack of dawn.” 

“I like you buying me breakfast.”

He laughs, just a low chuckle, but it draws Ginny’s attention to his mouth and her gaze lingers long enough for him to notice. “You like the beard too.”

She watches him draw the beer bottle to his mouth and take a sip, the cords of his throat working as he swallows. It’s suddenly the sexiest thing she’s ever seen.

“It’s growing on me,” she admits, eyes cast to the floor. That strangled sound is back in her voice and she lets her hair fall over her face to hide her wince.

“Ginny,” he says softly. “Look at me.” 

She raises her head to find Mike watching her with an easy smile that's so warm and familiar she doesn’t care how red her cheeks are. He’s Mike and he’s her mentor and her friend and he’s _safe_. They’ll get through this the way they've gotten through everything else.

“I missed you too.”

He hasn’t moved but it feels like he’s touched her, like his words are smoothing warm caresses over her bare skin. It takes a few seconds to find her bearings.

Mike has other plans. Like he’s reading her mind, he slides one hand down her arm, a slow, meandering touch that ends when he traces the fingers still clasped around her wineglass. “You’re all out.” 

He isn’t talking about booze. Ginny can see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch. Whatever promises they made in October, he wants more, and he wants it with her. 

Trevor’s face sprints through her mind, her mom and Kevin and all the reasons she has a code. She isn’t like other girls. Nothing about her life gets to be on her own terms. 

“I don’t date ballplayers.”

She says it to deter him, but he slides his fingers down her other arm and rubs the pulse point at her wrist. She bites her lip to keep from making a noise. “Tonight, I’m not a ballplayer. I’m just a boy asking a girl to have a drink.”

She stares up at him, sees the hunger in his eyes, his need in the tense set of his jaw. What kind of fool would she be to reject him? 

Mike sees her indecision, because he always manages to see exactly what she’s thinking or feeling before she recognizes it herself, and removes himself from the equation. “Tell you what.” He glances at his watch. “In an hour, I’ll be at the bar. I’ll order you a glass of wine. You take the glass, you won’t be able to walk for a week. You don’t, I go home with a raging hard-on and we pretend this never happened. When I see you again in April, you’re just my pitcher and I’m just your catcher. Capisce?” 

Ginny manages a curt nod and watches him disappear into the crowd because moving her legs has become an enormous challenge. Every nerve ending tingles and her knees feel shaky, like she might not be able to stand much longer. She unbuckles her strappy sandals and pads barefoot to the balcony, gasping lungfuls of fresh air. It’s not much cooler outside, but she’s alone and she can’t be around other people if she wants to get her head on straight.

She should walk away from this. She should wait until she’s older, or he’s retired, or she has more than one season on which to stake her reputation. There are so many things she _should_ do but she can’t bring herself to do any of them. She’s twenty-three years old. Sometimes she wants to drink wine and wear sexy dresses and fuck the man she’s lusted after for as long as she can remember. 

Voorhies comes out to sneak a smoke and Ginny hears Mike’s laughter through the open door. It’s low and manly and it sends another shiver down her spine. She clings to her poor wineglass like it’s a lifeline. No matter which decision she makes, her world isn’t going to be the same.

 

* * *

 

If phases one and two don’t work out, Mike thinks he might have a career in acting. He chats with the guys and drinks more beer and manages to survive the entire hour without giving anything away.

Ginny is nowhere in sight and it’s 11:05. Two minutes past his ultimatum, but who’s counting?

A minute ticks by and then another. His heart starts racing and his chest feels tight. The last time he put himself on the line for a relationship, it ended with a cheating wife and messy divorce. He’s not comparing Ginny and Rachel, but the anxiety is the same, like he’s on the verge of losing everything.

Three more minutes pass and it’s almost ten minutes too late. He loosens his tie and holds the cool beer to his forehead. He’s worried he might be having a panic attack.

He hears the tap of sharp heels and a rustle of fabric and swallows a groan because he really doesn’t need Amelia coming to gloat. But Amelia likes her gin and the woman next to him is reaching for white wine.

Slowly, like she has all the time in the world, like she doesn’t know this is the longest second of his life, Ginny picks up the glass and takes a sip.

 

* * *

 

Ginny’s quiet on the ride to Mike’s place. She stares out the window with her legs crossed, one foot tapping a steady rhythm against the floor mat. She twists her fingers in her lap, her knuckles bleaching white with tension. 

Mike watches her nervously. He doesn’t want her to change her mind, but he wants her to be sure. What she’s doing – there’s no coming back from it. So he gives her the room to think and choose, tries to ignore the incessant tap of her foot. 

They’re halfway to his house when he can’t take it anymore, clamps a hand down on her knee, rubbing slow circles over her skin with his thumb. “Breathe, Baker.” 

It takes a minute but she follows his advice and gradually the tapping stops. Never one for missed opportunities, he lets his fingers creep up her leg into the space between her thighs. 

It’s exploratory, testing the waters to see how she’ll react. He figures she’ll make a bad joke about him keeping his hands to himself. He doesn’t expect her to open her legs a little wider, so his hand slides a little higher. She keeps her gaze fixed on the scenery, but sucks in a ragged breath. 

“Eyes on the road, Lawson.” There’s a husky edge to her voice that he likes, almost as much as he likes her telling him what to do.

He turns his attention to the highway. She doesn’t move his hand.

 

* * *

 

Mike’s house is magnificent. 

Ginny isn’t surprised. Amelia has particular tastes and whatever kind of debauched bachelorhood Mike likes to pretend that he lives, Amelia would demand better. 

Thinking about Amelia makes Ginny remember the specific kind of stupidity she’s engaging in. Mike is thirteen years older than her. He’s her catcher and her captain. He’s possibly still sleeping with her agent. He’s her _best friend_. All those things are good reasons to stop, but it’s the last one that sticks. She can get a new agent and weather another media storm and continue playing even if he’s traded. But she can’t live without him in her life, the real him, the Mike she can always call and know he’ll be there for her. That’s what she can’t bear to lose. 

“Ginny, you with me?” 

She snaps to attention, almost falling off one very tall stiletto. It’s not the shoes. She might spend most of her time in Nike training gear, but she knows how to walk in high heels. It’s Mike that’s the problem. He makes her giddy and nervous and her equilibrium is all out of whack. She doesn’t feel comfortable in her own body, because her entire existence is all about control and when he’s near she doesn’t have any. She thought she had a grip on it during the car ride, when she sat at his side and made a mental list of all the pros and cons of having sex with Mike Lawson. The con list had been long and well-organized but the pro list had been one line-item: _I want this_.

That’s what it comes down to – she wants this. She’s wanted it since that day in the weight room and she wanted it when he kissed her after they made the playoffs and when she was in Europe dreaming of him and especially right now, when she’s in his house and he’s watching her with eyes so dark and heated his pupils are nearly blown out.

She chooses to use actions instead of words, crosses the few feet between them and kisses him hard enough to hurt. And not in a good way. She’s sloppy and out of practice and the angle is terrible. He pulls away after only a few seconds and her heart sinks. If he walks away right now, she’s not sure how she’ll ever face him again.

He doesn’t walk away. 

He gently cups her cheeks and looks into her eyes. “Let the pro handle this.” 

Ginny starts to say something in return, but he cuts her off by dragging their mouths together. The kiss is almost sweet in its tenderness and she appreciates kissing that doesn’t involve their teeth colliding, but it also feels like kid gloves and she hates being treated like she’s different.

He has more experience than her but she’s a quick learner, and she follows his lead, gives as good as she gets. She tangles her fingers in his hair to pull him in closer and bites down on his lower lip. His resulting groan might be the best thing she’s ever heard.

They break apart, foreheads resting against each other as they catch their breath. Mike’s hand rides low on her hip, just above the pear-shaped ass that started it all. She wants him to touch her there. She wants him to touch her _everywhere_. 

She takes his hand and laces their fingers together. Both their palms are calloused and rough but she likes how much bigger his hand is than hers. She hopes he’s big in other places too.

Slowly, he brings her hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to its back. “You ready to have your world rocked?”

Ginny rolls her eyes because he’s ridiculous, but doesn’t stop him from leading her up the stairs. 

His hand is warm and solid and she thinks it must be some kind of sign. Whatever happens next, they do it together.

 

* * *

 

Mike has never been a man without a purpose. He knows what to do and how to do it. It’s why Al named him captain, tasks him with keeping the team together. It’s how he got out of Iowa and to the majors and still has his dignity even after Rachel cheated on him and left him and took half his money.

He’s a man that gets things done, except, apparently, on the most important day of his life.

Ginny’s kicked off her shoes and let down her hair and she’s standing in his bedroom, less than three feet from his bed, and he can’t seem to do anything but stare at her.

He could stare at her for days and never want to look away. The shades are still up and the moonlight casts just enough light to make out her features. She’s staring at him too, wearing an amused little smile. It’s like she can see inside his head, that he wants her but he doesn’t want to spook her, and he knows it’s wrong to worry about scaring her because she’s a goddamn grownup and can make her own decisions. He won’t be one of those guys and it terrifies him that he’s thinking like them.

And maybe she truly can see inside him, because she chooses the call he wanted her to make all along, closes the distance between them and turns so he’s confronted with a long gold zipper running nearly the entire length of her dress.

“I need your help.” She pulls her hair away from her neck, exposing the long column of her throat and sharply etched collarbones. 

It doesn’t feel like charity to help her out of her dress, especially when he trails his fingers down the newly revealed skin. She shivers and he blows softly, just to see what happens. She gasps and he does it again, traces each knob of her spine as he tugs down the dress to pool at her feet. She steps out of it and all he can see is skin. She isn’t wearing a bra and the rest of her lingerie barely passes for underwear. It’s his turn to suck in a ragged breath to keep the night from ending before they get to the good stuff.

He kisses her and her mouth opens and this time there’s nothing clumsy about it. She winds one bare leg around his fully clothed hip and grinds into him. “Someone’s happy to see me.”

In one expert motion, he has her sprawled on his bed while he stands between her splayed thighs. “Just you wait.”

“You talk a big game,” she says as he shucks off his jacket and tie. “Time to put your money where you mouth is.”

He starts slow, getting a feel for her body with hands and mouth. Her skin is softer than he imagined, the muscles tauter. His knees protest audibly as he drops to the floor, but even if he never plays another game, he doesn’t think he’ll regret it, not if this goes the way he has planned. 

“Hey Baker?” he says and rests one bristled cheek against her inner thigh. 

“Hmmn?” Her voice is breathy and he adds his mouth, sucking lightly on her smooth skin. Her back arches off the bed and he does it again.

He glances up to find her looking down at him, brown eyes a little dazed. It’s only going to get better. “That thing you said? Trust me – it’s not the money you want.”

Mike’s good at oral sex. He has the experience and the drive, but mostly, he wants it to be good for her. She’s risking more than he can imagine to be with him and every moment should be worth it – what’s not a great souvenir but good sex? 

It’s more than good sex. It’s fucking great sex, he knows this already, and she’s barely touched him. She tries though, when she’s no longer boneless and panting on his bed, but this isn't about quid pro quo. Just watching her come apart on his fingers and tongue is more than enough.

“Later,” he says and pushes to his feet. He’s still wearing his shirt and pants and it’s just too many clothes. 

Ginny doesn’t take her eyes off him as strips. He’s never been shy about his body before, but he wonders what she sees, if he looks one way in his gear but fully naked, with thirteen extra years of wear and tear, she’s regretting her choice. He keeps his gaze fixed on the floor as he slides off his underwear and kicks it away. 

She doesn’t have buyer’s remorse. He can see it in her eyes when he straightens to his full height. She’s looking at him in a way that makes him think he could have his body at twenty or his body at fifty and she’d want him either way, because it’s not just his body that she wants. He knows this because he feels it too. She’s beautiful, yes, but there are lots of beautiful women in his life. This thing between them is about so much more. 

He has to look away to rummage in his nightstand for the condom, and to put it on, but then he’s back with her, looking deep into her eyes as he slips back between her thighs and prepares to slide for home.

 

* * *

 

It’s now or never. 

Ginny’s been debating telling Mike all night, a debate nearly as heated as her decision to do this at all. 

She’s twenty-three years old, sat through health class in high school and a mortifying, all-team lecture her first year in San Antonio. “Your salaries are peanuts compared to what the NBA is offering," her manager had said. " Child support is a hassle you can't afford." 

Objectively, she knows that losing her virginity should be no big thing. She knows her own body and she hasn’t been a nun for the past decade. She’s been ready for a long time for the actual sex – it’s the partner that’s been holding her back. 

It’s never been about waiting for marriage or the perfect moment, only the perfect partner. She wants someone she respects, intrinsically and entirely, someone she won’t regret in the morning. That’s it, really. She wants to wake up next to a man that knows her and respects her and gets her. Trevor was almost that guy and Ginny’s glad he wasn’t. If she couldn’t trust him to tell her the truth, she’s glad she didn’t trust him with anything else. 

She trusts Mike. She trusts him with pretty much everything and she thinks she can trust him with this. He might be a little surprised, but he won’t treat her like she’s fragile or naïve or incapable of making her own decisions. Been there, done that, and they’ve come so far. But he has to know, if for nothing more than to take it easy on her. Her body’s new to this and he needs to make the appropriate accommodations.

“I’ve never done this before.”

He’d stills, but doesn’t pull away, blinks down at her with his jaw locked. She hopes he’s deep in thought rather than upset. 

“It’s not a big deal,” she continues when he doesn’t say anything in return.

It’s another thirty seconds before he answers, the longest and most awkward thirty seconds of her life. “The last time I was someone’s first, she was my first too. We were seventeen.” He brushes her hair off her face. “It’s been a long time and I want it to be good for you.” 

“Just go slow.” 

He grins at her, mischievous and playful, and rolls them around so he’s flat on his back, her thighs bracketing his hips. “Let’s give it a whirl.”

She knows what he’s asking, even kind of understands what to do, and she can’t resist teasing him to distract him while she moves into position. “Making me do all the work?”

He sprawls back on the pillows with his hands crossed behind his head, elbows splayed wide. “I like the view.” 

“Excuses, excuses. Knees can’t take it?” She raises her hips and lines him up, hovers on the edge of no return.

He rolls his hips so he brushes against her, hot and hard and so, so ready. “You know me well.” The smile disappears from his face and she’s not sure she’s ever seen him so serious. 

“Yeah, I do,” she says and bends to kiss him. 

He catches her face in his hands before their mouths make contact. “Are you sure?”

For a moment she wants to slap him. He was there during the beanball game and every day since. He _knows_ how she feels about other people making decisions for her, thinking their own wants are more important than her needs. She can’t believe this is happening and now of all times. 

But then she looks closer and realizes it’s not about sex at all. He’s asking if she’s sure about him, if he’s worth the fallout of whatever comes next. He looks vulnerable and young, more like the poster she had on her wall than the man in her bed. He’s letting her see _him_ and that’s when she knows she made the right call in waiting.

She nods once and finishes the kiss, sinking down around him as he groans into her mouth. She doesn’t have anything to judge him by but he feels big, stretching her to her limits, so she goes slow until she adjusts. There’s a man _inside_ her, and she takes a few seconds to ponder that. She’ll remember this moment for the rest of her life, not because it’s her first time, but because it’s Mike. She’s not sure she’ll ever forget a single moment with him.

The first roll of her hips is tentative, but Mike helps her with the rest of it, guiding her through the motions with his hands on her hips. It takes a few moves to figure it out and then she’s taking over, setting the pace and adjusting her body until he hits a spot inside her that makes her hiss with pleasure. His thumb presses hard on her clit and the hiss turns into a full-fledged moan.

Ginny isn’t a screamer, but when he hits that spot, inside and out, she gets an idea of why porn stars put on a show. It just feels so _good_ , the pleasure he’s pulling out of her but also the connection between them, especially the way he looks into her eyes when she comes. He’s not far behind, gasping her name as he pulls her down in a crushing kiss that steals her breath. She’s still trying to find it when he rolls them to the side and pulls out, eases out of bed to throw away the condom. 

His knees and back must be killing him, but it doesn’t show as he pads back to the bed. Her eyes are closed but she can feel him watching her, hesitating a long second before he tugs back the duvet and slides under the sheets. He pats the spot next to him. “Come here.”

She lets out a relieved breath and curls into his side, resting her head on his chest. She’s not sure if she wants to spend the night, but she knows she didn’t want to leave immediately afterwards. It’s nice lying here with Mike, resting her head on his chest and listening to his breathing. It’s as uneven as her own. 

She snuggles in a little deeper and trails her fingers down his stomach. It’s firm and flat, the muscles bunching as her hand ventures lower. He groans into her hair, hips flexing slightly. 

“I’m no spring chicken, Baker.”

Ginny knows as much, with the ice baths and missing the All-Star game and the painful crack they both heard when he knelt in front of her. And she knows things about men in general, but she also knows herself and knows that this is what she wants. She wants to know his body as well as he knows hers, wants to hear that gravelly way he says her name.

She smiles against his thigh. “How about this one time, you let me call the shots?”

He rises up on his elbows so he can look at her, a heated challenge lurking in his eyes. “You think you’re ready for that?”

“I learned from the best.” She grasps him in her hand and traces the tip with her tongue, growing bolder with each resulting groan. 

It’s nearly dawn before they’re done, sprawling sated and exhausted across Mike’s bed. The sheets have been kicked to the bottom of the mattress but Ginny isn’t cold, not with Mike cradled around her. She could learn to live with a personal space heater that’s really talented with his tongue. Especially one that risks his knees to reach for the duvet and pull the covers over them.

He presses a kiss to her shoulder and tucks his face into the curve of her neck. It should be uncomfortable and weird, but it feels natural, the way her back fits against the planes of his chest and their legs tangle together. 

She’s glad she chose to stay, because this bed is comfy and Mike is so warm, but mostly, she’s not sure she ever wants to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delayed posting. This is the porniest thing I’ve written and it took forever because I’m so awkward at it. Still, I think it turned out rather well, and I figure I’ll be forgiven anyway because the smut got so long that I’m expanding the fic into one more chapter. Hooray! Thank you for the wonderful support. Title and quotes courtesy of Billy Joel. Enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> PS: sexy times in Part II. You're welcome.


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